


A Sure Bet

by epkitty



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: Gambling, Gang Rape, Hurt, Irony, Kink Meme, M/M, Prompt Fic, Rape Aftermath, Sexual Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-18
Updated: 2012-01-18
Packaged: 2017-10-29 17:49:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/322520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epkitty/pseuds/epkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the kinkmeme prompt: Watson goes gambling but he runs out of money. The people he is gambling with want payment, they suggest sex. Watson resists. Non-con happens.</p><p>Make sure you check the warnings on this one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Sure Bet

**Author's Note:**

> Don't look for a happy ending here, folks; you won't get one.

Addiction entwines itself in the most unexpected ways. The way his fingers curl over the barricade of the boxing ring -- clutching harder at every move -- is second nature. The familiar, thrilling shortness of breath puffs air from his lungs, but each inhalation drags delicious need over every nerve. The mechanism of it has entrenched itself in his skin. The want of it -- of the win on the table, of the money in his hands, of the grin on his face -- churns within him in tightening concentric spirals, and if this is how the morphine can pull you in, he fears he understands Holmesʼ occasional need.

Holmes. Sherlock Holmes, a man Watson has occasionally tricked himself into believing capable of all things, a man whose genius lies so far beyond elementary as to be ridiculous. A man who could have emptied the vaults of the Bank of England at a single strike, swept the London stage with histrionic fervor, or revolutionized the nature of chemistry throughout the modern world, but a man who currently digs his booted feet into the sandy floor, regaining his footing after yet another fall, and ignores the grime caked to his sweaty side.

Watson doesn't bellow and roar, but stands deceptively still, his eyes alight with fevered passion; he can see the winning blow in his head, can feel the bank notes swelling his bare pockets.

His heart drops like a stone to his gut every time Holmes goes down, and then lifts high and stammers wild again when the detective staggers to his feet. The slurred shake of his head is a feint; the perfect stance betrays his skill, shoulders back, fists out front. Watson abruptly remembers it was the Greeks who invented this sport.

Once a sport revered at the ancient Olympics, now banned in London, and feeding Watsonʼs addiction as surely as cards and dice ever did.

He didn't know much about boxing, hadn't anyway, not until Holmes dragged him to this godforsaken little pub where the ring was made up of wooden planks that could be laid out on sawhorses as tables in moments to hide the nature of the place; that anything but boxing could happen here seemed laughable. Heʼd cleaned the blood off Holmesʼ boots too many times. Cleaned blood from other parts, too.

And now, heart swelling and swerving and reeling, Watson leans in, sharp eyes following every move, every strike, every miss, every foul. His pockets are empty, his bets are high, and the certainty of the win fills his laughing head even as Holmes goes down anew. His friendʼs words from earlier in the evening cut across his brain yet again. “Iʼm due for a win, I think, my dear Watson, after this grueling case with nothing but idle threats and dead ends at every turn.” His dark eyes had sparked with mischief as he pulled on his roughest coat and oldest hat. “Iʼll see you tomorrow, old boy,” casually thrown over his shoulder.

As though Watson hadn't known where he was going. As though Watson could refuse a sure bet.

So he breathes in the fetid air of the place, makes his empty bet, and watches Holmes go down over and over.

When he stays down, Watson thumps the barricade with a fist and finds himself yelling along with the rest of the rabble. _Get up_ , and _what are you doing_ , and _good god man!_

But he doesn't get up, the win is announced. To Watson itʼs the sharpest loss yet, felt with a shuddering shock of breath and pull to the gut, the same way a ship dips down from the swelling crest of a wave.

But immediately, his keen doctorʼs eye examines his friend: movements ginger and slow, breath stuttering, eyes unfocused. Stunned, winded, but not truly hurt. Watson pushes his way around the nattering crowd toward the gate, toward Holmes who needs him, but he doesn't make it. A wall of stench and old shoddy blocks his way.

“Oh. Barnes. Iʼll have your money, and Dawsonʼs; I need to attend to--”

“Not so fast, doc,” came a new voice at his shoulder. “Thereʼll be no whinging out of this one.”

At the sudden shock of a meaty paw digging into his biceps, Watson abruptly mutates from concern to fury. His startling eyes narrow to slits as his whole body tenses.

“Unhand me.”

“I donʼ fink so, sawbones.” The oily voice is at his ear, smooth and nauseating. “Youʼre like to disappear as not, wiv wha'chou owe. Danny?”

Danny Barnes, the wall of acrid muscle and sweat, spins Watson like a top and pins his arms at his sides. Men slink away to either side around them; no one wants to get involved. The beanpole in front of him searches his pockets as Watson glares, as though his look alone can repel the man. At least his watch is safe, Watson thinks. He pawned it earlier that week.

“I can _get_ you money, Dawson.”

“Oh right, jusʼ as soon as you turn tail and disappear, eh? Danny anʼ me, we know your type, donʼt we, Danny?”

Watson snarls, slams his heel into Barnesʼ instep, knocks an elbow into his ﬂabby face, and makes a dash through the crowd. Heʼs lost track of Holmes in the press of people, but heʼs been watching that narrow stair up to his bolt-hole above the ring the whole time. No Holmes. He had to be right there, just beyond the barricade.

Before he can take two steps, his momentum carries him over Dawsonʼs ready foot. Watson slams to the gritty ground with such force the breath is knocked out of him. He gasps for it as his vision darkens, sparks, and comes back into focus. His gasping is worthless at first, his entire torso defensively constricted to protect itself from the jarring impact, and then he breathes, once, twice, and then the boot connects with his side and finally: complaints voiced by the other patrons bloat the air.

Hands under his armpits, hands on his elbows, heʼs forced to the street, the street dark and moonless with fog already rolling in, distorting what little light there is in this part of London.

 _This part of London_ , Watson thinks, and then, _theyʼll find my body in the river_ , and then, maybe they wonʼt find my body at all.

He coughs and sputters, feels wetness on his lips and doesn't know if itʼs saliva or blood. He thinks again of Holmesʼ bolt-hole above the pub. He wouldn't expect to find money; Holmes would have hidden that too well for him to find, but there has to be something of value. “I can get--”

“Oh,” Dawson mewls in his ear as they force him round a corner, away from the light, away from anyplace anyone might think to complain of a murder, “oh, but doc, there are other forms of payment.”

“What do you--”

“You owe us... what was it, Danny? Twenty quid?”

“Each,” the giant grunts.

“And...” Watson groans. ʻIʼll have it,ʼ he means to say, but his chest expels a cough he cannot hold back, and in what precarious light is left to him here, he thinks the liquid that spurts from his mouth is tinged with the life-red of blood, but itʼs hard to tell as Barnes throws him to the alley floor.

“Itʼs alrigh' though,” Dawson says, with a shuffling sound of fabric that Watson canʼt identify, “weʼre not as bad off as some. Moneyʼs somefing we come by naturally, ain't that right, Danny?”

Danny laughs, if a laugh you could call the vile wheeze that fills the alley, and Watson feels his skin crawl, as though it might slink off his bones to escape down the filthy gutter.

“Problem is, doc, you owe us. Not tomorrer, anʼ not the day after, but right now. Thatʼs how gamblin' works, y'see.”

Watson coughs again, and now he can taste the blood. He spits half-heartedly to clear his mouth, and feels the dribble down the side of his chin.

“It seems you donʼt see,” Dawson says, false disappointment lacing his tone. “Danny, 'elp out the Doc, 'ere.”

Gathering his strength, Watson takes a breath, another, and pushes up, pushes himself away from the alley floor, and sinks his teeth into Dannyʼs ankle.

The bellow of rage and pain echoes in his ears as Watson gets his feet under him, sprinting as fast as his bad leg and aching stomach allow him.

Itʼs not fast enough. Dawson tackles him, something cracks his skull near open, and thereʼs no ﬁght left in him, at least he supposes there isnʼt. Then the hands at his belt make plain their intentions and Watson feels the struggle rise in him again.

“You ʻavenʼt got a watch , anʼ you ʻavenʼt even got a bob, but what yʼdo ʻave weʼll take, by God!” Dawson yells into his face.

“No,” Watson says, his voice wrecked, his hands desperately pushing away the assault.

“Danny, get yer arse over ʻere. Hold down this blighty bugger...”

Meaty fists turn Watson to face the ground, his face in the gutter, his shoulders pressed so hard the nerves sting and numbness threatens within seconds. He screams, knowing thereʼs no one to hear him, to care, to come.

His belt disappears into Dawsonʼs pocket, his trousers and drawers are pushed to his knees. He panics, fingernails scraping and breaking against the stony earth, booted feet kicking out blindly as a hand closes round his throat and his screams are crushed to little more than choking burbles. His body loses the will to fight, but his mind protests in a storm so thick that he thinks it should envelop all of London with its strength, but it is his only to know, a storm of fear and hatred in his mind, culminating in a riot of pain as he is breached, entered, penetrated. Spittle and sweat to ease the way and nothing, _nothing_ else as harsh breath assaults his ears, and the bitter laughter of desperate men.

Barnes takes his turn and itʼs even worse, this mass of human flesh atop him, he canʼt get away from; Watsonʼs face scrapes against the ground, his clothes are ruined, his body is worse, and thereʼs nothing left of him when they leave him there, not even a shadow of John Watson as the dark night fades to darker nothing around him.

=====

He canʼt have been out for more than a few seconds. He can hear the retreating steps of his tormenters as some dim light seeps back into his world to tell him the shape of things in the shadows. Watson scrambles onto hands and knees. He feels pain everywhere, can hardly differentiate one from the next. It is this lack of precise pain that allows him to stand on his two feet again and gather up what remains of his clothing about himself. He staggers from the alley, back into the street, around the corner. He leans on the handrail that takes him up the narrow steps to the rented room above the pub. The key -- remarkably -- is still in his waistcoat pocket. It turns in the lock like butter and he breathes a sigh of pain and relief as he closes the outside world away and locks it behind him.

Everything he needs is here, in this desolate little room cramped by the impression of Holmes everywhere. Holmes: embedded in the wall in charcoal, lodged amongst the papers strewn hither and thither, stacked in the corner with his chemical paraphernalia. Both comforting and unpardonably distressing in his current state. None of this is what he needs now.

Watson opens the drawer of medical supplies and sorts out what he does need. This he can do. Just like pulling a bullet, stitching a wound, things heʼs done half asleep and wasted on army rations in the dead of night with barely a light to see by. Lay out the tools... he needs water.

Thereʼs a pitcher of standing water, no ﬁre. It will have to suffice.

Time to take stock, he thinks, before he passes out. Head and torso first, where damage must be first countered. Several contusions to the head, scrapes on his face: negligible. Throat bruised. Ribs cracked, possibly broken.

He tests himself, twisting to one side...

Definitely broken.

Possible damage to kidneys; irreparable if bad.

And...

Watson falls to his knees, vomits in the corner. Blood and bile along with the eveningʼs dinner.

He sets himself in motion; heʼd been a military doctor; for Godʼs sake, heʼs seen worse.

He cleans himself, and yet for all the sense it makes he canʼt bring himself to look in the scrap of mirror, a mirror for applying disguises and for the occasional shave when the mood strikes him. Him. Holmes. Will he return tonight?

Watson is terriﬁed to realize he doesn't know if he wants Holmes to come or not. To see him would be the greatest comfort... for him to see Watson... thinking upon it does not comfort him. No manner of thought can comfort him.

Thereʼs the bed: the rickety, lumpy little thing. Best thing heʼs seen all night. He kicks his shoes away into a corner, but pulls his clothes more tightly about him. He wraps himself in the sheet, and leaves a lantern burning low at his side. He thinks he might possibly have a concussion.

He thinks that if he does not wake up again, it may not be a curse.

=====

“Watson?”

The voice breaks down his nightmare to fragments, which scatter in the light of the lantern, turned up as high as it can go.

He opens his eyes to the most welcoming sight imaginable. There stands Holmes, rumpled, one eye swollen, his clothing a costume of tatters, and - what Watson is sure - the flush of victory upon his face.

“Holmes... you disappeared.”

“What the hell happened to you?”

Watson debates an attempt to move. He remains wrapped in the bedding, peeping out from the sheet. “Bit of a bother, really.”

Holmes knows him too well. The detectiveʼs deft fingers peel the sheet away from him. “My God,” Holmes swears.

 _How very unlike him_ , Watson thinks as he curls into himself, preparing to sit upright. His body informs him this is a bad idea.

Holmes makes a good deal of noise, calling downstairs for hot water _at once_ and clattering about the place like a fox in a hen house.

“Holmes, really I must protest, all this--”

“You, be quiet and tell me what happened,” Holmes demands.

Watson lets out his long-suffering sigh, an old and familiar companion. He tries to glare, but canʼt manage much more than a glazed look of pain.

Holmes holds something to Watsonʼs lips, a small bottle that he canʼt see.

“What is it?”

“Laudanum.”

“Holmes, no, I--”

“Just a sip.”

It is not the words but the cautious tone that convince Watson to let the bitter stuff burn down. Just to kill the pain. Just a little.

“All right,” he mutters when Holmes tips the bottle, trying to get more in his mouth. “Enough, Holmes!”

“Well?” Holmes asks as he sets the bottle aside and pulls up a chair to examine Watsonʼs temple with a magnifying glass. “Iʼm waiting.”

“Itʼs...” It isnʼt nothing. He canʼt say that. “I lost a bet.”

For just a moment, Holmes freezes. “Oh?”

“I... couldn't pay. So...”

“So?”

“They took something else...”

“Watson?”

“I have been... trespassed upon...”

Holmes finally stills his ﬂuttering about and prodding at Watsonʼs head. Dark eyes blacken to shadows as his mouth falls into a grimace of disbelief. “No, how could you--?”

“You said,” Watson said, digging up a smile to show he felt no wrongdoing, “you were due for a win. I thought... It doesn't matter. You threw the fight.”

“I threw the fight.”

“Why?”

“For the win--”

“Ah...” the light dawns. “A suspect,” Watson mutters, his head curling down into the lumpy pillow.

“A client.”

“A case...”

“Of course,” Holmes whispers.

“Of course,” Watson echoes

“My dear man. If Iʼd had the barest notion...” Holmesʼ hands find their way into Watsonʼs, gently cradling the abused flesh of long fingers and strong palms.

“What are you doing, Holmes?”

“Your hands are shaking.” It is a quiet statement, all the more significant for the quiet all around them.

“My hands donʼt shake,” Watson denies. Heʼd been an army doctor for Christʼs sake.

But even as he says it, he can feel it, feel Holmesʼ gentle grasp on his shaking hands.

Holmes is immobile, his back rigid, his hands sure, but Watson sees those darting brown eyes tick back and forth and up and around, a quirk that betrays an inner turmoil he would not otherwise be able to detect. With utmost caution, Holmes pulls his hands away, stands with the aid of his hands on his thighs.

“Well,” he stands for a moment, lost in the madness of his little room. “Best clean you up, then.”

“I took care of it.”

“You didn't take care of anything, you've blood everywhere and--”

“...And?”

Holmes sets what he needs beside the bed and Watson hisses at the first brush of a hot cloth at his brow. Holmes draws back after the first swipe to show Watson the blood and grime.

Watson scowls, as though a foul expression can protect him from Holmesʼ dubious ministrations. “Carry on, then.”

His face and hands bear the worst of it, and Holmes carefully cleans him, despite the ﬂinching and complaints. He wraps the base of Watsonʼs still-bleeding palms and says, “Do you...?”

Watson ﬂinches. “Iʼm... Iʼll be fine.”

“You should sleep. The laudanum will help.”

Watson hears a bell chime somewhere in the night; he canʼt recall which church is closest. Itʼs early morning, very early. Exhaustion sets in as the night gives a sighing breath and Holmes dims the lights, leaving the one lantern as it had been upon his entrance.

With a gasp, Watsonʼs eyes snap open when the covers are raised behind him.

The bed is narrow, but not too narrow for two thin men. Holmes wraps a protecting arm around him and his warm breath settles like a gentle wing against the back of Watsonʼs neck. “Sleep.”

Watson would sleep, he would... but he feels those tense muscles pulled up against him like a strung wire. “You go to sleep,” he mutters.

“I should have protected you.”

“Itʼs my own damn fault. Thereʼs no such thing as a sure bet.”

Holmes tucks his head, his nose nearly brushing the nape of Watsonʼs neck. “Iʼm so sorry.”

“So am I.”

=====

The End


End file.
